239
and it would do so. It was best to keep it in the greenish starlight-enhanced mode, however; it helped keep him oriented.
Zen’s advice.
“You’re looking good, Hawk leader,” said Major Alou.
“Wild Bronco is twelve minutes from target.”
He hesitated before acknowledging—it felt odd to be called Hawk leader; that was Zen’s title.
“Twelve minutes,” he said. He was going to overfly the building, check for last second developments. The Megafortress was five miles from the building, the Flighthawk now a little closer.
“Low and slow like we planned,” said Alou.
“Low and slow,” he repeated.
“Gun radars two miles ahead of you, just came on,”
warned the radar operator a second before the warning flashed in the Flighthawk screen. “North of that town.”
“Got it.”
Incirlik
2320
TORBIN DOLK HAD JUST CLIMBED INTO BED WHEN THE
knock came at his hotel room door. He thought about pretending he was already sleeping but figured that wouldn’t save him; though nominally a private hotel, the building was reserved for military use, and the only person knocking this late would be here on official business.
“Yup,” yelled Torbin, still hesitating to get out of bed.
“Captain Dolk?”
“The same.”
“Lieutenant Peterson, sir. General Paston sent me over.”
Paston was a two-star Army general, the ranking Cent-
240
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Com officer at Incirlik. Dolk realized he was about to be fried big-time.
Very big-time.
Shit. Harding had told him he was in the clear.
Worse thing was, they didn’t even have the decency to hang him in daylight.
“Give me a minute.” He slid out of bed and got dressed, fumbling as he pushed both feet through the same pant leg. His eyes were a little fuzzy and he had to tie each shoe twice.
“You awake, Captain?” asked the lieutenant when he finally opened the door.
“Yeah. Uh, maybe we can grab some joe in the lobby.”
Two Army MPs stood behind the lieutenant in the hall.
Two other soldiers with M-16s were standing a short distance away. They all followed as Torbin and the lieutenant walked to the elevator, where two Air Force sentries were stationed. No one spoke, either in the elevator or in the lobby, where Torbin sniffed out the boiled grinds in the overheated carafe next to the front desk. Then, cup in hand, he followed the lieutenant to a staff car outside.
The soldiers followed in a Humvee as they raced through the security perimeter and then back to the base.
Torbin thought several times of telling the driver to slow down; five minutes one way or another wasn’t going to make much difference. But at least he managed not to spill his coffee.
Security at Incirlik was ordinarily very strong; even when Iraq was quiet, it probably ranked among the most heavily guarded facilities outside of the U.S. During the past few weeks, the troops guarding it had been doubled, with a number of high-tech snooping and identity-checking devices added to prevent saboteurs and spies from getting in. And now the security had been heightened further.
Two companies of heavily armed soldiers stood outside RAZOR’S EDGE
241
the fence; another platoon of men and a pair of tanks stood along the access road. A short line of vehicles waited at the gate to be searched. The fact that a two-star had summoned him didn’t allow them to cut in the line either.
“Wasn’t this crazy before,” said Torbin when they were ordered out of the vehicle for the security check.
“What’s up?”
The lieutenant didn’t say anything, nor did the MPs looking them over. Finally cleared, the lieutenant didn’t wait for their escorts. He took the wheel himself and drove toward a hangar area at the far tip of the base. As they approached, Torbin realized why the security had been tightened—a huge Megafortress sat in the middle of the access ramp. Passing through yet another security cordon, they approached the plane slowly, having been warned that the guards in front of the aircraft had orders to shoot any suspicious vehicle.
Torbin had never seen a Megafortress in person before.
The aircraft seemed very different from a B-52, even though it had supposedly been built from one. Its long nose—silver, not black like the rest of the plane—extended toward the car as they approached; the aircraft seemed to be watching them. Perhaps the shadows made the plane seem bigger than it actually was, but the Megafortress definitely stood several feet higher than a stock B-52. Its wings seemed longer, sleeker. Her engines were single rather than double pods; with fins along the underside, they looked more like rockets than turbofans. The plane’s V-shaped rear stabilizer or tail rose above the nearby hangar, a pair of shark’s fins waiting to strike.
A soldier dressed in camo and wearing a green beret walked to the center of the roadway as the car approached, holding out his hand. The lieutenant immediately stopped and got out. Torbin followed, trailing along 242
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
as several other Special Forces soldiers appeared. The lieutenant presented credentials; the soldier nodded grimly and stepped back, allowing them to pass toward the tail area of the plane. A figure in a flight suit approached; Torbin was surprised to find it was a woman.
And a very beautiful one at that. Five-six maybe, 120
or so—could be a little less.
Eyes like heat-seekers.
“You’re Dolk?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m Captain Stockard. Breanna.” She held out her hand. She gripped his more firmly than any hand that smooth had a right to grip. “I understand you’re an electronic warfare officer, a pitter. You fly in Weasels?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“We need some help,” she told him. “You had an engineering degree too.”
“Well, uh, yes ma’am.”
“I realize you don’t have clearances. We’ll backtrack later. If there’s any reason you can’t help, you tell me now. If you don’t—well, if you don’t want to get involved right now for any reason, any reason at all, turn around and go back to bed. No questions asked. If you come with us and something comes up—you’ll be fried. No one will bail you out. You understand?”
Her eyes held him. What was she talking about?
God, she was beautiful.
“Captain Dolk?” she said. “Staying or going?”
“I, uh—I want to help.”
“Good.” She smiled. “We’re trying to get things put back together, and we need someone to help our technical person. She’ll tell you what to do.”
Breanna started walking away, then spun back toward him.
RAZOR’S EDGE
243
“Yo—get your butt in gear, Dolk,” she barked. “Onto my plane. We have work to do.”
Dolk hadn’t been spoken to like that since basic training, perhaps not even then. He snapped to quickly, breaking into a full run but failing to catch her as she disappeared up the ladder of the black Megafortress.
CentCom HQ, Florida
1330
“BARCLAY, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING OUT IN THE
goddamn lobby when I need you in here?”
“General Clearwater, I was—”
“Get your butt in here, Barclay, without back lip.”
Jed Barclay had been told to wait in the outer office by Clearwater’s chief of staff, who had conveniently melted away before the four-star general appeared. But he’d been dealing with the head of Central Command a great deal over the past few months—he’d been told about not using back lip at least ten times already—and so he took the ad-monition in stride, following along as the general walked briskly down the hallway of his Florida headquarters.
“You see that report from Elliott?” asked Clearwater.
The general was in his early sixties and looked at least ten years older. But he walked fast and was rumored to work around the clock.
“Yes, sir,” said Jed.
“Well?”
“Uh, I agree. The damage to the first plane was almost certainly a laser. And since the Iraqis don’t have the technology—”